11.3.09

Welcome To The World Of The Spy Novel

The music I use to wash my hair every three days or so no longer wants to be heard in this world of performance-chakras, downloadable bubble-butts, and the fusion of every newfangled fascism under the sun. Even my handwriting, which I'd often come to find floating so carefree around the livingroom, bears the look of utter defeat. And
rhymes with electricty.

'Welcome to the world of the spy novel, sentence by sentence...' from the radio. Once fuel for a billion dreams in a more innocent time (we are told), it now serves mostly to remind us that even the ugliest of our toes needs to be fed.

Laughter rising from the street below, young people on their way to drink and dance in sweaty, crowded nightclubs and bars. Come midnight, they will simultaneously reveal their wings they had tucked away from sight, unfurling them briefly but with tremendous pride. Such transparency is required because the poets in this orbit are all heroin addicts. Their parables and aphorisms, though originating in good intent and fecundity of spirit, sit quietly at busy intersections, taking in all the hullabaloo, sipping wine while trying to appear wise. Clearly a hallucination, the latest science is vacationing on the beaches of Australlia, keeping a diary in which it dutifully records the arcane mysteries it can smell on the warm wind, failing to notice that the racial question has suddenly grown fins. No humming in public places, please. All floating knives are to report immediately to such and such a nanotechnology at the appointed time. We all know the drill, so we just smile and impose our own theory of what makes a circle a circle.

Melodies improvise themselves into being while I sleep. Glowing, perfectly oiled, chest-hairs have invaded my refuge in the virtual.

Rosicrucianism is simply not the place for me. Its secret leaders are impotent, no longer aroused by the mere sight of planes leaving the runway. My tongue knows the distance to downtown Montreal, comrades, the home of bicycles that yearn to be Mexico, anyway.

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